The marble lid seals upon the casket. And there are graves behind my church. If I were a savant and wrote a poem a month for ten years, this is what would be my sacrifice. This collection is a censored autobiography; who wants to spoil the illusion of heroism? Or perhaps, I take my best for better than? Tant pis. C'est la vie . Here are poems on Paris, Brussels, and Edinburgh. Here is stubborn French and elusive Scots and a smattering of Latin. Here is a man who wrestles with the cosmic God, and bites into Dogma and Theism. Here are referential poems, associative poems, hermetic poems, allusive poems. Here is a Schizoaffective. It twists the artistic compass. This man who spent four days in Paris. Mais qui parle parfaitement la langue. Whose never been to Belgium. And has vague ties to Scotland. Who doesn't truly speak Scots. In short what is this? 100 poems. Here is a poet. Here is liar. (Oh, the drama.) As for my influences. I am big fan of Yves Bonnefoy, Robert Fergusson, Walt Whitman, Seamus Heaney, Emile Verharaen, W. H. Auden, Arthur Rimbaud, T. S. Eliot, and John Keats.